The Role We Must Play
by Oven-Mitt Troll
Summary: I have apparently crossed some fine line that has altered my existence from being an independent free thinking being to that of a brain parasite suppressed by the limitations set by my fleshy prison. I bet some philosophy major would have a field day with that statement.
1. Chapter 1:Live Combat Is In First Person

You know, staying up all night playing videogames is never a good idea. For one it's bad for your eyesight and for two it can put some really weird thoughts in your head while you're trying to sleep.

While I'm not one who always wishes to have my brain cook up a nightmarish scenario in which I get pulled from reality and into a videogame, I must say I am taking my current situation quite well. I even give a little hum as I pull out the sword I just moments ago plunged into the chest cavity of one of my pursuers. It wasn't everyday you could act out your most base and homicidal tendencies since, hopefully, you are like me and adhere to a strong moral fiber that retrains you from evil in all of its shades.

Yet, everything around me feels so light and airy as if I was the only solid object and the man who I just skewered and is currently bleeding out on the ground was made of tissue paper. Heck, the sword I am holding wasn't even mine to begin with. I just pulled it off a fellow who tried to stab me with it after I struck him with a gauntleted fist. In fact the longer I hold the sword in my hand the heavier it feels, so I promptly drop it, and relish the sensation of blood rushing to my fingertips.

My heart rate quickens as I unconsciously pivot on my left foot and an arrow whistles by the space adjacent to me. I blink and turn to see an archer a couple yards away knotting another arrow to his bow. That is when I notice the cavalrymen approaching from behind him, and for a brief moment I see the entire battleground like a map in my mind.

The whole area is a rolling field, strewn with cultivated plots of land. In the distance I see mountains and behind me was a dense forest which I promptly run into. I hear another arrow embed itself in the bark of a tree I dart behind and dash deeper into the woods. I keep my head low until I spot a large tree with thick enough foliage and swing into it using one of the lower branches.

My heart beats wildly in my chest but my muscles are taut as I crouch on a concealed branch. As my arms and legs burn with tension a part of my mind wonders at my newly acquired muscle tone and larger proportions, before quickly silencing when the archer appears out of the brush. Before he could realize my trail ended at the tree I land on his shoulders with the undersides of my boots. He crumples to the ground in a cry of pain and I hear a snap that could either be a branch or his bones. I roll back onto my feet and swipe the bow from his loosened grip as well as three arrows from his quiver.

I don't kill the archer, he was disarmed and making sure he was dead would have taken time, and with the sound of galloping hooves drawing closer I don't want to stick around.

I hasten through the woods until I emerge out of the tree line, panting heavily. A grassy plane opened before me and in the distance I could see a wooden structure. My heart sinks with the realization that I would not be able to outrun the horsemen when they emerge from the wood, but I still feel a pull toward the fort as my mind casts a vision of comforting blue auras inside and around it. I don't question the gut feeling, and my legs burn but I push through the pain and with a second wind, make a break for it.

I hear the cavaliers break out of the forest but I don't stop running until I am just within the reach of the invisible blue field around the fort. I turn to face the two horsemen galloping towards me and notice a third hanging back at the opening of the forest.

Without a quiver I hold the shafts of two of my pilfered arrows in my mouth while I draw back the other and shoot. The arrow flies past the rider closing in with his sword drawn but strikes the other one in the shoulder; thankfully on the side he was holding his lance.

The first rider goes to slash me across my chest but only barely cuts through the hardened leather vest before I take a five foot step back and loose another arrow, edging my way closer to the fort. The arrowhead embeds itself in the thigh of the sword wielder for what can only be minor damage. Like the sword before, the bow begins to feel heavy in my hand and I drop it on impulse. I'm now standing in the middle of a grassy plain unarmed and with an arrow between my teeth. What a complete moron I must look to these blokes.

The lancer sees this as an opportunity and lunges forth to plunge the spear head into my chest, but it lacks the speed and precision required to do me in. I take hold of the pole-arm and my grip is like a metal vice. Blood rushes and pounds in my ears as I pull the weapon and its wielder, sill attached, off his horse. He drops to the ground, one foot still caught in the stirrups, and I drive the last arrow into his throat with my bear hands. Gruesome, I know, but I don't have time to think about it, or how the man gurgles his last breath, before the horse runs off scared with its rider dragging beneath it.

I hold my newly acquired lance at the ready, but the other cavalier is still watching his dead companion's body be dragged away through the dirt. The look of pure horror on the sword bearer's face nearly makes me freeze up, but the look of vengeance and anger that replaced it puts me back into the fight for my life. His steed reared up and before I realize it my left arm is cut open by his blade. Any deeper would have cleaved bone. The iron gauntlets that covered my forearms helped to shield the full brunt of the blow and keep my arm from being completely crippled.

I respond to the attack with the same amount of ferocity and my whole body feels like lighting just coursed through every muscle.

"Stand and deliver!" An unfamiliar voice issues a cry and it is not until the cavalier is on his back that I realize that it was my own.

I don't recall ever speaking in such a low octave and I don't have time to recall as the third rider charges in with a javelin razed above his head. Quite cunning, if not a little gutless, to stand back and wait until the enemy is weakened even at the cost of a few men, men who had homes and families no doubt. I steel myself for the oncoming assault, trying to ignore the sting and growing numbness of my left arm. That is until a throwing axe is lobbed from behind me and splits my attacker's head open.

The horse still gallops towards me but slows to a stop when its rider slips out of the saddle motionless.

I look over my shoulder to see a large bearded man with a mullet and another hand axe standing but a few feet away. Two other men with faces obscured by hoods flank him each holding a spear in each hand. The axe man approached me and surveys the damage on my person and on the two warriors that fell by my hand.

We lock eyes. I was now leaning on my borrowed lance with my good arm, my heart is still pounding and my thoughts can barely keep up with what's going on.

"Hi." The unfamiliar baritone voice speaks up again.

The greeting I received in turn is the flat of an axe against my temple. Darkness quickly overtakes me.

…Next thing I wake up to the ceiling of a dingy cell in a bed that was not my own with manacles strapped to my hands and feet.

Once again the voice that was not my own broke the silence.

"Crap."

* * *

AN: (11-6-13) Just posting the edited chapter with fixed tenses. Expect chapter 2 soon!


	2. Chapter 2: Prisons

'What's going on?' I wonder to myself.

'Well I'm in some sort of cell, apparently.' I answer myself.

'Yes, I've noticed,' I look around at the stone walls taking note of the rusty barred window to my left and thick wooden door to my right. It's probably locked. "But why am I here, exactly?'

'Beardy must have put me in here,' I respond while examining my arm. It's bandaged up but still hurts like the dickens. 'Seems like a decent enough guy though, he did take care of that one fellow coming to kill me.'

'He's decent alright, for someone who splits heads open, and knocks people out with an axe, I'd say he's quite the respectable gentleman,' I tug at the iron cuffs that bind me in frustration. While everything else in the room was nearly rotted away, the manacles were the only thing that looked untouched by rust or wear.

'What I mean to say is: why am I here? Specifically, why was I being chased, and from where? Even more importantly, who the heck even am I?'

I stop myself from getting up on my feet and blink.

'Now is not the time to get existential.'

'NOW IS THE PERFECT TIME TO GET EXISTENTIAL!'

I nearly fall off the musty bed I'm sitting on from the sudden wave of pain in my head. That blow from the axe must have done more damage than I feel comfortable with admitting.

'Who am I?! I'm certainly not the person I was when I went to bed last night because, news flash, I DON'T KILL PEOPLE!'

I clutch my head as a sharp ringing develops in my ear and let out a low groan. The voice in my thoughts is shrill and unfamiliar, almost childlike in the way it annunciates certain words.

"But I have killed before," I remind myself aloud of this dark fact and the ringing dies down to a low hum. "I've had to kill…"

Memories of my past play blurredly in my mind. What feels like the most recent one comes out the clearest.

It's in some backwater village under the hot glare of the sun. Someone must have caught wind of our intentions there and called the local militia. The captain of the guard accused us of being, "heretics and dissenters," and demanded that we prove our loyalties to god and country.

I turned to my companion, both of our faces are obscured under cowls, but our eyes meet nonetheless. We were both tense, but I nodded to them, and watched as they revealed the mark that only the most faithful are permeated to bear, hidden underneath a glove. I stare at the pale hand marked with a twisty wreath of eyes and remember the same brand being on a tiny fist of a babe's that had clung to my own smaller finger many years ago. This person was my...

Family…

The soldiers flinched and immediately backed off; the captain looked like he was cursing himself for acting so rashly. Yet, before we were dismissed and allowed to continue on our way, an older man from the crowd stepped forward. What a high ranking priest was doing in a village like that I still can't figure out. The codger grasped my sibling's wrist and pressed down on the mark with his gnarled thumb. They squirmed as the priest's hands flashed briefly with dark magic. It took almost all my willpower to not jump for the man's throat.

The old priest looks satisfied and reaches to remove their hood, but I snatch his wrist before his fingers could bush against the fabric. He cries as I shove him away with a hard squeeze of my metal hand, and his personal guard make themselves known by coming to his side.

"We have made the vow of shadows, to show our faces in daylight would break the holy sacrament." The knowledge of the scriptures and rituals father had forced me to memorize and recite to him as a child finally became useful in our masquerade through the country. Yet, I could tell that my words did little to quell the old man's suspicions and that my actions only made him more incensed against us.

The old priest chuckled and apologized through gritted teeth, and then invited us into the inn for respite from our pilgrimage. I saw right through his plan, to bait us indoors and trap us in his web. I could hear the wheels of my sibling's mind spinning a plan of escape and with a second long glance and nod the message was conveyed.

We accepted the invitation, acting none the wiser to any of the crooked priest's schemes, but when the town guard had left the scene and we crossed the threshold of the door, we made our move. The next few minutes blurred into a mix of lightning, blood, and muffled screams that ended with me and my sibling fleeing into the wastes on the horse of a dead man.

I lay back down, yielding to the pain in my head and the soreness of my body.

'When did killing start being easy?' The voice asked as my headache starts to fade away.

"Easy?" I laugh "I can't recall a time when it was ever easy." I answer truthfully, even if it is silly. Here I am talking to myself and not even an hour has passed since I woke up in this cell. My eyes become heavy again and I begin to drift back to sleep.

'So all that fighting back there?'

"Hard as hell…" My voice fades into a rough whisper and I do not hear the cell door creek open

I dream.

I'm standing in the middle of a star lit desert and the sand trembles underfoot. I look up and see the head of a gigantic dragon a half a mile away. I run towards the giant's head, each step is like jumping on the moon, carrying me over several feet of sand before my foot touches the ground again. As I draw closer I see the great beast clearly.

The dragon has the face of a man but its jaw is shaped like a stone axe head. Its scales were like giant shields and a mane of gold and red adorned its crown. Emerald and amethyst feathers lined its exposed underside and along its limbs until they splayed into three pairs of large wings. Its long horns were like a bull's that cast an even longer shadow on the sand.

As I cross the crest of a dune with a great leap I realize that the dragon is asleep and the rumblings were due to its snoring. It was almost cute. Almost.

The dragon looked older than time and its body seemed to go on for miles like a mountain range, rising up and down in time with its steady breathing.

Before I can reach the dragon's head a figure rises out of the sands like a thick black cloud and approaches the sleeping one first. It looks like a giant of a man in thick robes, but due to the distance and darkness I could not fully tell.

The dragon's eyes fluttered open and speaks to the shadowy one in a voice that is both a whisper and a roar. I can not understand a word of it, but it sounds like a greeting. I strain my ears to hear the shadow man's response but I can catch only faint syllables fading over the sands.

Before I could move to get closer to the pair, a flash of light blinds me for a moment and a deafening screech knocks me off my feet. I open my eyes to see the dragon writhing in the sand, black coils of magic are penetrating its face. The color of his scales and feathers dull, its mane begins to molt, the horns on its head sharpen to that of metal blades, but the most terrifying transformation is what's happening to the dragon's mouth. Its jaw unhinges and stretches out unnaturally, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Blood pours out of its maw and eyes, staining the pale sand crimson as it churns underneath its thrashing body.

The drake's roars of pain die down after what seems like hours of torment and the sands tremble at his pained breaths. Finally, the cloud of magic solidifies to form a skull shaped snout. Six red eyes glow like a hot furnace from beneath its calcified cap. My attempts to get back on my feet are for naught as I am thrown back by a gale of wind and sand. The dragon rises from the ground and flies straight up. It unleashes an inferno of black and red that sunders the sky with a deafening crack, the stars fall and I scramble to avoid getting impaled by the crystals that hung above my head. This whole desert is in a cave?

A serpentine tail disappears through the fissure and the earth moans and seals its wound shut. The once pristine ceiling of glowing stone now has a black void were it was torn apart like a scar. My attention is brought back down by a rush of heat and the smell of brimstone. The pool of dragon's blood boiled the sand until it was an ever growing sea of molten glass. I turn to run from the oncoming wave of fire, but my whole being is gripped in fear as I hear a horrifying sound rising up from beneath the sand. The muffled screams of hundreds of people steadily grows in volume.

As the wave of molten sand rolls towards me I jump, straight into the air, and it passes below me. As I hang in the air I can see them, the charred bodies of dozens upon dozens of people, rising up from the sand and feel their bone chilling shrieks wash over me. I reach the peak of my jump and fall towards the hellish scene.

I wake with a jerk and a gasp for breath.

My body is in a cold sweat and I shiver. I do not notice the man sitting beside my bed until my heart rate returns to normal.

"Bad dream, Lad?" A bearded man with broad shoulders asks with arms folded over the back of an old wooden chair, the same one who knocked me out with the flat of his axe.

"Yeah," Is my only reply and pretty much sums up my experience so far.


	3. Chapter 3: Outpost

Part of me still feels like this is all a dream, but as I watch the scene before me from behind unfamiliar eyes (heck, I don't even know for certain what color they are now); I am forced to come to grips with my fate. The person I remember being, the young college student in the comfort of her room, was not the same person sitting on a rotted bed in a dingy cell. I'm not even allowed to think too hard about my past least I give my current host a migraine. Nor can I probe his memories when he himself is not reminiscing. The only thing I can do is be quiet, watch, and listen, like I'm someone at the movies and have to follow theatre etiquette accordingly.

I have apparently crossed some fine line that has altered my existence from being an independent free thinking being to that of a brain parasite suppressed by the limitations set by my fleshy prison. I bet some philosophy major would have a field day with that statement. Nonetheless, I am not completely powerless. With some discreet encouragement and suggestions, I can agitate certain thoughts from my guy's mind.

'Who's this?' I ask, my shared vision focusing on the warrior before me.

'The guy who knocked me out and probably locked me in this cell. Looks like a Fighter class, specializes in axes and hammers.'

See? My guy doesn't even realize he's just answered the question of someone sharing a body and mind with him. At least for now, I really don't want to have to explain why I'm in this guy's noggin. Until further notice I must accept the fact of our shared existence. For the sake of both our sanities: he is I and I am him, as awkward and uncomfortable as that may be.

…

...Meanwhile there is still a large burly man with an axe strapped to his back across from us… me.

We stare at each other for a while, I on my decrepit pallet and he on his pauper's throne.

He is dressed in minimal armor, his right arm bare while his other arm and legs have leather plating. Around his neck is a steel collar with chains hanging out of a relief of a wolf's head. The unique design piques my interest, as I feel my mind draw information of the surrounding regions' icons.

'He is probably Feroxi…' I speculate. The part of my mind, that is so desperately trying to go with the flow and play the hand that has been given them, comes to a screeching halt with that thought.

'Feroxi?... Oh-ohmygosh…' How could I have not realized it sooner, the medieval setting the ability to see things as if they were a table top map? Heck, I was thinking about someone as an in-game class archetype just moments ago! 'I'm in FIRE EMBLE-!'

Black out.

Huh, so this must be what they call, breaking character. As my vision shifts from black to a shimmering blur of color and my ears pick up muffled speech, I swear to myself to refrain from ever trying to break the forth wall while in character again.

Something is propping me up and I feel my cheeks be lightly smacked by what could be the calloused hand of my warden.

"Oi…wake…up. Lad." I can barely hear the Fighter's voice as my vision clears. He is standing over me his eyes searching my own as I slowly come to.

"Don't go fading on me now. Damn, I'll never hear the end of it from Myelin if you end up brain dead, after all that trouble she went through mending that arm of yours."

"Wha-?" I gulp some spittle that was pooling in my mouth and hold down the bile that's trying to force its way out.

"Ah, thank the gods. Here," he uncorks a small glass bottle before handing it to me as I slowly sit up straight, "Take this Vulnerary. It ought to clear your senses."

I take a swig, willing to drink anything that would wash the bad taste in my mouth away. It tastes earthy with minty undertones, strong enough to notice but not overpowering. My mind sharpens and whatever thoughts I had before my episode are quickly swept under the rug. I look the man in the eyes as he returns to his seat and hand him the empty vial.

"Thanks." I simply say, remembering that the man was still my captor has me less inclined to speak.

"Don't mention it lad, it is partially my fault your brains are scrambled anyways." He waves his hand dismissively. "Don't take it personally though; I wasn't sure you weren't a threat to my men, after seeing you fight those Plegians. Not like I have any love for that lot or anything, but it does bring up the question of why they would chase you across the border, skirting round the North Sea no less." The bearded man's eyes narrowed, "Are you some sort of fugitive?"

The hairs on the back of my neck rise and the chains around my wrists and ankles feel tighter, as if reminding me my predicament: being at the mercy of this stranger's whims, a stranger in charge of protecting the welfare of his men and the innocent. Yet as my gaze locks with his I see through his amber eyes, eyes not clouded by prejudice of the threat I could be, and see a warrior who holds his duty as priority.

"…Yes…" I answer in truth, my gaze unwavering.

"So this is not the first time you killed one of their soldiers?" The still nameless warrior raises a brow.

"No." I answer.

"Did you steel something?"

"No."

"Did you sack a village?"

"No."

"…"

We stare at each other evenly. His whiskered chin resting on his folded arms, while I'm passively leaning against the stone wall. This interrogation is oddly casual, like I'm speaking with a guidance councilor, not a hardened warrior.

"So what did you do exactly?" He invites me to speak on my own behalf.

"We killed a Grimleal Priest."

"We?" The Fighter raises a brow.

"…Dammit." I pinch the bridge of my nose and lean forward. I should not be allowed to speak on my own behalf, ever. Looking through squinted eyes I see the Fighter waiting for an explanation.

I sigh. "Yes, we. I was travelling with a companion before I drew our pursuers away."

"For killing the Priest I assume?"

"…Yes."

"Not the smartest thing to do while living under a country that'll hang you for saying Grima's name wrong," the soldier scratches his tawny whiskers, "Was it over a religious disagreement?" He asks humorously.

"…No…"

The man frowns, clearly not liking my habit of answering with a mono syllabic word. I'm not getting out of this cell if I don't at least show that I'm not a dangerous killer. Although thinking back, I did stab a man to death with an arrow, so the least I can do now is convince him that I'm not a complete psychopath. If I want to see the sky again, I'm gonna have to relent.

But only a little bit.

"The Priest was a threat to our safety," I finally say, "but that is all I can tell you on that matter."

Nailed it.

Sorry dude the secrets of my mind are a mystery even to me. Well at least half of me, the other half seems to know what he's doing. However, I am starting to get an idea of who my companion's identity is. I'm not going to think too hard about the how's and why's of it though. Don't want to fry Mr. Mysteries' brain here like last time. Oh gosh he's rubbing his temple, that's my queue to shut up.

The Feroxi-ish man at last rises from his seat, drawing attention away from myself. "Well I guess that'll have to do," he says as he produces a key from his pocket. He walks over and unlocks the iron cuffs around my wrists and ankles. They fall to the ground with a satisfying clank. The Fighter steps back so I can stand up and stretch my legs. I rub my chaffed wrists, now realizing that I was being set free.

"Thanks," I say before extending an open hand to my former captor, "I'm Kole, thanks for saving my life by the way." The name rolls easily off my tongue.

Huh, so that's my name. Kole. Not bad I can work with this.

The bearded giant grins and clasps my hand firmly and gives a hearty shake. "Hah! So when the shackles drop so do the formalities!" the Fighter winks before saying, "The name's Weiss, lad, Captain Weiss of Ylisse's North-West outpost, funny how that worked out in' it?" Weiss chuckles before leading me through the cell door.

"You're one lucky runaway, coming to my fortress like that." The hallway we enter is a bit cramp so he ushers me in front as he continues to talk. I suddenly remember that he has an axe and that I am unarmed at the moment. "Had the Pegasus Guard been the ones to snap you up, you would have been bound and gagged the moment those lance maidens looked at you." However, the walls are close enough that he wouldn't be able to make effective swings with his axe should he try to attack me. "Not to sound unfair, but those girls have a history of not being favorable to border jumpers, even to those seeking sanctuary which is what brought you here I'm guessing?" He continues to talk while we climb a stone staircase and I continue to think that if we do end up in a close combat situation I would be able to…

'Wait, hold up… Why am I thinking about this? He's letting me go.'

'I might be unbound, but I'm still inside his base. I'm still technically his prisoner.'

'Then why would he let me out of the cell were I was locked securely inside?'

'He could be moving me to a different cell, or maybe to a proper interrogation room, maybe even a torture chamber.'

'Why would they waste the effort and resources to healing me and fixing my arm if they were going to eventually torture me?'

"…Good point." Oh, crap. I said that out loud. Thankfully it seems to weave into the conversation as Weiss continues without missing a beat.

"Well, accident or not, you coming here is defiantly what helped saved your hide." Weiss steps in front of me to open another door at the top of the stairs. "You survived your escape and your sister is safe from harm."

I nearly fall down the stairs I just climbed from shock.

"What?"

The door opens to a large room with a handful of soldiers scattered about it, two of whom were in the middle of a conversation with a familiar figure wearing a coat with a notably Plegian design to it: a row of eyes down the length of each arm. The person turns and the coat's hood shifts enough for me to see long silvery white hair spill from it and a pair of crimson eyes lock with mine (which I still don't know the color of).

Weiss and I cross the threshold and the soldiers stand to attention in the presence of their commanding officer. The girl in the hood just glares at me before excusing herself from the two guards.

"Robin." The name slips of the tongue as easily as my own.

'Called it.' A voice in my head rings before being drowned out by the feeling of relief that washes over me. This relief however, quickly turns into apprehension as my sister marches towards me with a determined look in her eye. While her head just barely comes to my chest, her size does not lessen the impact of her fist into my stomach.

"Ow…" I wheeze.

"You moron!" She yells into my ear.

She then throws her arms around my hunched over shoulders in an impromptu hug and I slowly wrap my arms around her as I get my second wind. I hear Captain Weiss chuckling off to the side.

'Not bad,' I think, 'I could work with this.'


End file.
